


Wrong & Real

by imalright



Series: Sylvix Week 2019 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sylvixweek2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalright/pseuds/imalright
Summary: Felix has a nightmare.Sylvix Week 2019 Day Two: Dreams





	Wrong & Real

_His breath catches._

_It's not right. Something's not right._

_The man in front of him, with dead eyes and dull hair, blood dripping from his mouth and following the curve of his jaw, he's not right. He's a dead man standing. The smile on his face is an echo of the man he knows. The blade piercing through his chest, coated in blood and enveloped by viscera, pulses with a heartbeat he knows isn't there. It taunts him._

_He turns._

_Again, he's there._

_Felix's heart races as he realizes there's no escape. He turns again, and there he is. The ghost of Sylvain, impaled by an imperial blade. The ghost reaches a hand._

_He turns again._

_This time he runs. He pushes past Sylvain's dead, outstretched hand and runs through the cobblestone streets._

_Sylvain waits for him around every bend. Behind every market stall. The townspeople he passes morph into him, reaching out, calling his name._

_"Felix."_

_He shakes his head. No. No. No._

_"Felix."_

_"No!"_

_The more he runs, the closer he gets. His breath is ragged. He's close enough to touch. His outstretched fingertips, cold, dead, brush against Felix's arms and legs as he rushes, faster and faster, through the thickening crowd of his dead lover._

_He's sweating. He can feel it. He can almost smell it through the stench of rotting corpses and medicinal salve. His hair is sticking to his face, his feet are sticking to the ground. He tries to kick his boots off and, in his moment of distraction, he's surrounded._

_"Felix," they all seem to whisper with one voice._

_Sylvain, no._

_"Felix," their voice whispers again. Their hands converge on his body, to the back of his head and around his waist._

_He chokes._

_"It's okay, Felix," they all whisper far too close to his face, "I'm right here. You're with me."_

_It's too real. It's too real. Their dead eyes. The blood covering their faces, hands, and torso. Their solid touch._

_So is he... dead?_

_"Sylvain, no."_

He's much too warm. He can't move. He can't escape. He can't fight back.

_"It's okay, Felix," they all whisper. Some of their voices are interrupted by a gurgling of blood._

He tries to thrash but a heavy weight is holding him still. He screams in frustration, his voice muffled by their hands, their hair, their armor.

_"You're safe with me," they all whisper and no, the fuck, he is not._

"Let go. Let go!"

_They all converge into him and he feels himself rising. He fights. He needs to stay. He needs to stay with the real Sylvain, here, on the ground._

"You're safe with me," a voice, full of life, murmurs across his cheek. "It's okay, Felix. You're safe with me."

He shudders. His breath rattles out of his chest. He wants it to be true. He _so_ wants it to be true.

_Their hands still. Their eyes stare, unseeing, and he remembers it's not right. It was never right. He knew that. When did he forget?_

There's a soft touch on his face. It's warm, caring, nothing like the icy fingertips of the wrong Sylvains.

"Open your eyes, yeah? Look at me, Felix."

_He does. There's another Sylvain. This one is close, his face cast in a dim blue. Dead. Dead. Wrong._

"Oh, Fe," says wrong Sylvain in an excellent imitation of fond Sylvain, "It was a dream. I promise, it was just a dream."

This Sylvain's brow is creased with worry. His eyes are shining with life.

_He won't be fooled. He reaches a hand up to touch his ice cold face, to confirm this wrong Sylvain is just as dead as the rest of them._

He's warm.

He reaches with his other hand and whimpers in relief when he feels the warmth of his skin under both his palms. This Sylvain turns his head just enough to kiss his thumb.

_He's so, so scared._

"It's okay, Fe. It's okay."

This Sylvain is warm. He's warm and he's holding Felix in his lap and he's _blue_ and that's not right and —

Felix swallows and forces himself to look around. His heart jolts as he realizes he's not in town, he's not at the market, the ground is wood and not cobblestone, the walls don't open to dark alleys leading only to Sylvain's corpse. He's... He's inside. He's in Sylvain's warm lap, on a bed. The first light of dawn is coming through the window, spilling a dim blue light and _ah,_ it's starting to come together.

His heart still pounds. His breathing is still quick. But the logical part of his brain has caught up and is telling him _you're in your bedroom. Sylvain is here, with you. The war is over._

Slowly, and still tense, he eases himself against Sylvain's chest and wraps his arms around his neck. Sylvain runs his fingers through Felix's hair. It's soft; kind. The simple touch helps him relax and, before too long, he's nearly melted in Sylvain's arms.

His voice comes softly. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Felix shrugs.

It's silent for a spell.

"I didn't even get nightmares during the war," he grunts, "I don't understand why I'm getting them now."

"I guess we all process things differently," Sylvain says, "I'm not sure there's anything to understand."

It's silent. He's not sure if five minutes pass, or fifteen before he speaks again.

"Do you get them?"

Sylvain kisses the top of his head before he responds. "Yeah."

Felix nods. He's not sure why.

"It... You're always hurt," Felix explains. "I know it's not real, even in the dream, so I try to leave. But I can't."

A sob involuntarily wracks through his body. He's glad he didn't get nightmares during the war. If he'd been like this at camp or the monastery he thinks he'd die of shame.

But Sylvain already knows him down to his bones. If someone has to see him like this, if someone has to comfort him, it has to be Sylvain.

"I'm not hurt," Sylvain reassures. His voice is a whisper, ghosting over his ear, drawing a pleasant shudder. "I'm right here, I'm real, and I'm not going to leave you."

He sits up again. Sylvain's arms loosen around him and the hand that's not in his hair rests on his hip. He doesn't know what to say, the words don't come, so Felix does what he does best and speaks with his actions. He leans forward and presses their lips together and it says everything for him. His love, his thanks, his everything.

**Author's Note:**

> the nightmare depicted reflects my own experience with ptsd nightmares and may not reflect yours or your friend's
> 
> come scream about this game with me on twitter [@punchyfakegamer](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


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